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ENTERTAINING MR STONE Please be aware that this excerpt contains sensual content that is only suitable for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of erotic scenarios
When reforming bad girl Maria Lewis returns to her home town after a career blip she takes a drone job in local government, hope for breathing space and a chance to get her head straight. But the quiet life she was looking for is quickly disrupted by the enigmatic presence of her boss, Borough Director of Finance, Robert Stone. A dangerous and unlikely lust object, Stone touches something deep in Maria's sensual psyche and quickly attunes her to the secret erotic underworld that parallels life in the dusty offices of Borough Hall. But the charismatic Director of Finance isn't the only one interested in Maria. Knowing lesbian Mel has designs on the newcomer, and so does cute young techno geek Greg. Human Resources Manager William Youngblood would also like to prise the Borough's latest employee away from the arch-rival for whom he has ambiguous feelings. Can adventurous Maria find time to experiment with this embarrassment of lovers? As well as entertaining her cool and sexy Mr Stone? Amazon.com :: Amazon.co.uk :: Amazon.ca Barnes and Noble :: Waterstones DIGITAL EXCERPT - Prologue I'm staring at the door again. That big, old looming great door that leads to his office. It's huge and there must be half an oak tree there, and there are all sorts of knots and whorls in it, all polished to within an inch of someone's life. Two of the knots look exactly like a pair of eyes, and they're watching me. Staring me down, the way he does. Somewhere in my innards I start to quiver. Oh hurry up, you bastard! I can't wait any longer. Buzz me in! As if he's read my mind with his voodoo mentalist powers or something, there's a sound like a strangled buzz saw, and Mrs Sheldon, his PA, says, 'You can go in now, Miss Lewis.' She gives me a kindly, clear-eyed smile, the old dear, and nods. She hasn't the faintest idea what's going on, bless. Now the moment's come, I'm both terrified, and so excited I've almost forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other. It seems to take about a year to actually get to the door, and when I get there, my feet glue themselves to the carpet for a while. Robert Stone, CIPFA, Director of Finance. I have the mad urge to kiss the nameplate, but I resist. Mrs Sheldon might start to suspect something at last if I start doing weird and worshipful things in the outer office. Better save those sorts of activities for the inner sanctum. A firm, resonant voice calls out 'Come!' from beyond the whorly wood. Oh shit! I've kept him waiting. I'm in for it now. Or at least I hope I am. With a moist shaking palm - and some moist shaking in other bits of my anatomy - I twist the big brass door handle, push open the door, and sidle inside. He's on his feet, which throws me. And I stand there like a twit, just gaping at him, while he turns away from the window that looks down over the courtyard. I wonder who he's been watching. He likes to watch, and in this mad place there's often something going on that's worthy of his special and unusual attention. But I'm wool-gathering. I should be concentrating. He's looking at me. Waiting for me to say something. But unfortunately, I'm gob-smacked. As usual. The Director of Finance. Stone. Mr Stone. Clever Bobby. Whatever. Well, he's a tall man, and imposing. Not fat exactly, but no Greek God either. Just an average looking, middle aged, slightly greying, five o'clock shadowy [he says he has Italian ancestry] suit-wearing local government bigwig. Theoretically, he's the sort of bloke you wouldn't look twice at in a crowd, especially if there was plenty of younger talent around. But in practice, well, he makes my knees disintegrate and this yearning, gnawing sensation start up somewhere around where I think my heart is. I'm just about to topple over when, thank Christ, he says, 'Take a seat, Maria.' I take one. It's the very plain hard chair, a few feet from the front of his desk. I don't feel any better at all because I know this chair of old. 'So!' he says, sounding quite bright and perky as he leans forward, his palms on his desk for a moment, supposedly studying some papers spread out over his blotter. The sudden movement stirs of whiff of Mr Stone smell - a mix of Dior and just a hint of not unpleasant late afternoon sweatiness - and I have to concentrate really hard not to a] topple off the chair, or b] crawl across the room on my hands and knees and press my face against his nether regions. 'Your latest Performance Review,' he continues, giving me a look like the devil. He's really trying not to laugh, because basically this is all bullshit. The person who's supposed to do reviews is Mr I'm so Trendy, designer wearing, one time arch nemesis, full time bisexual William Youngblood, the Human Resources supremo. And what's more, Stone put me through one of these same 'reviews' only four days ago. 'Leaves a lot to be desired, doesn't it, Maria?' he says, as if I've any idea what's written on the paper in front of him. Raising his eyebrows, he pushes himself upright again quite quickly, snatching up his stainless steel rollerball from the desk, and twirling it in his fingers. He has this way of being both nervy, and totally relaxed and in control all at the same time and it's bloody disconcerting. He comes across like some naughty, overgrown imp about to play a trick on me. I swallow. Oh, the tricks... 'Nothing to say?' My mouth is dry. I'm suddenly impatient with all this ponceing about. I wish he'd get on with it. 'I -' Voodoo ray style, he reads me. 'Are you wearing knickers today?' he asks in the same tone of voice he'd use if asking me to get on the Intranet and call up some council house income stats for him. Flinging down his pen again, he moves quickly round to my side of the desk - light on his feet for a big man - and stands before me, reaching down to lay his hand lightly against my cheek. His skin isn't soft like a pen-pusher's. He's a man of action, although he doesn't do sport. He just plays games. Still, I've lost my tongue somewhere. 'Knickers, Miss Lewis?' he prompts, fingertips still against my face. They're only blood heat, naturally, but it feels as if he's branding me. 'Um... yes.' 'Yes what?' 'Yes, Mr Stone, I'm wearing knickers.' His fingers slide delicately across my face, and for a moment his thumb settles on my lower lip. When he withdraws it, he studies the trace of clear lipgloss that clings to his skin, then seems to zone out for a moment. Maybe it's a make-up ad fantasy? Kate Moss pouting for Britain. I don't know. Then, 'Details, Miss Lewis, details!' He's brisk as he whirls away again and goes back to the window. 'They're pink... er... cotton and Lycra. They're a thong, actually.' I stutter and choke on the words as if he's asked me to reel off a whole string of the foulest, most depraved obscenities. Which he has, as good as, for the purposes of this entertainment. 'A thong, eh?' He leans against the window jamb, looking out again, bracing himself with one arm raised, elbow crooked, cradling his head. He's having the time of his life, as he always does. 'Not really appropriate for work, that, is it?' he queries, not looking at me. He doesn't need to. He's seen every inch of me in Technicolor close-up, plenty of times. He could probably draw a picture of my sexual topography if he wanted to. And he might actually want to, one of these days. 'I don't suppose so,' I mutter. The garment in question is rapidly becoming pretty sticky, and I'm filled with a sick, almost head-spinning urge to show him. I want to feel ashamed and grovelling. I want to crawl on my belly for him. Do anything. Expose anything. Endure anything. 'Better take it off then, hadn't you?' Yes! I start to wriggle on my seat and fish around under my skirt, but before I've made any headway, he's watching me again, bitter chocolate eyes intent and rather bright. He's smiling with them, even though his stubbly face is perfectly straight. 'Not like that, Miss Lewis. Stand up. Lift your skirt.' I obey, hauling up the cotton fabric, although to be honest I don't have far to haul it as it's rather short. Something else that's inappropriate for work, even if it's entirely appropriate for entertaining Mr Stone. I'm not very graceful when I'm nervous, and I scuttle and hop as I step out of my thong. I'm probably getting a black mark for that too. With no instructions as to what to do with the thing once I'm out of it, I just stand there, thong in hand, still holding up my minuscule skirt and blushing furiously. I daren't look at my prize, but know they're moist, to put it mildly. I can smell myself [and I'm pretty ripe because it's been a long day waiting for this] and I'm sure he can too. He nods towards his desk, but I play dumb. He quirks his eyebrows like some playful demon and my sex clenches. 'On the desk, please, Miss Lewis,' he directs as if it's a folder full of fiscal projections. Both my ears and my clit are pounding by now. Semi-manufactured embarrassment and total horniness in equal measures. I spread my little thong out neatly in the middle of his blotter, just the way he prefers, sticky side up. He folds his arms. He unfolds them and then rubs his bristly chin. He paces up and down, behind his desk, head cocked, perusing my offering. He pauses, taps his pursed lips with his knuckle, nodding. Boy, is he making a meal of it today! He crosses his arms around his body, looks first at the crotch of my knickers, then at my face, and goes, 'Hmmm...' Not once yet has he looked at my bush, which is still in plain sight beneath the hiked-up hem of my skirt. 'Pretty conclusive evidence,' he observes, in a passable impression of my favourite television detective, who I've told him more than once he resembles. For several minutes, he just stares at the manifestation of what he so effortlessly does to me, as if seeking the meaning of life in that dark pink diamond shape. Just when I think I might pass out, he moves towards me. The smell of Dior and the wolfish tang of perspiration grows stronger, and without thinking I breathe in deep. He watches the lift of my breasts beneath my top as he stops, just inches from me, but doesn't yet touch me. 'So,' he murmurs again, head tilted to one side, all nervy again, yet somehow also less fazed by the situation than I could imagine any other man in the world would be. I'm still holding up my skirt with one hand, but the other just hangs down at my side as if I have no bone, no muscle tone to support it. It stays there when he reaches down summarily between my legs and begins to manipulate me. Touchdown, the crowd goes wild! Or at least all the nerve-endings down there do. The ones that have been screaming for just this delicious bit of business since before I even arrived in the outer office. I start to make little gasping, grunting noises, and to wiggle my hips to his rhythm, but he shakes his head slightly, and goes 'Uh oh!' beneath his breath. I bite my lip, and his eyes narrow and go all sultry and heavy-lidded, the skin at the corners of them crinkling in a way that's both boyish and indicative of the grip of middle age. My arousal ramps up another notch just from that one single thing. It's hard to stand up and it's hard to stand still. I feel as if I'm in some weird place that's a million miles away from the Director of Finance's Office in Borough Hall. I'm in some parallel universe with new rules and new people. I'm fighting to control every muscle in my body, and there's a little wetness slipping down the inside of one of my legs. And still he fingers me. 'I think I might fall over,' I gasp, in an odd, light high-pitched voice that doesn't sound a bit like me. 'Well, hold onto the chair, you silly girl,' he chides, increasing his rhythm, getting a little bit rough. My clit sings, gathers itself. I grab onto the chair back with my free hand. He continues to rub, his own free hand hanging loosely at his side, quite relaxed, as if unconnected with what's going on down below. And then I come. Come in massive wrenching waves, and his free hand isn't unconnected any more because it's around me, cradling and supporting me when I can no longer support myself. 'Oh, Bobby,' I whisper, completely out of it, but he doesn't chide me for my impertinence. He just holds me for a little while longer while I descend again. But he's hard. Very hard. I can feel it jabbing into my bare thigh, through the cloth of his trousers. And a moment later he hustles me towards his desk and drapes me over it face down. There's a rustle, and the familiar music of a very smooth running, expensive zip whooshing down. A hand presses on my back, flattening me against the blotter, and against my own fragrant, incriminating knickers, then the same hand manhandles my thighs apart and prises open my sex. 'Oof!' The air rushes out of me as his cock rushes in, and as he begins to thrust, hard, he mashes my clit against the desk. I come again, and I'm seeing stars. Oh, Clever Bobby! Amazon.com :: Amazon.co.uk :: Amazon.ca Barnes and Noble :: Waterstones DIGITAL © Portia Da Costa and Virgin Books 1995 and 2014 |
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